


Nine Career Paths for Witches

by LeBibish



Category: The Craft (Movies 1996 2020)
Genre: Because I Couldn't Resist, Bonnie and Rochelle are minor characters, During Canon, Female Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Pre-Canon, Swearing, Witchcraft, not compliant with The Craft: Legacy, small crossover with Practical Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeBibish/pseuds/LeBibish
Summary: From before the movie to long after the movie, an exploration of Nancy.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Nine Career Paths for Witches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vivien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivien/gifts).



Nine Career Paths for Witches

**Career Path #2 Professional Psychic**

**(16 years and 7 months old)**

She walked out of the sea that morning, her feet skimming lightly over the water, the power coursing through her like electricity singing through powerlines, and she heard them. Their awe, their fear, confusion, surprise overlapping in her ears, in her mind.

_What is…How…Is that…? What the Hell…Why her? Why her? Why not me?_

There was a tiny piece of Nancy, deep in her mind and memories, that flashbacked to reading old comic books under the covers of her bed (ignoring the yelling and screaming from the next room, desperately focusing on a different world). That piece thought about the stories of telepaths that made it sound so painful, so overwhelming, voices in your head all the time, everywhere, wouldn’t it be awful?

She pushes the thought down—she’s stronger than that. She has the power of Manon in her. He chose her. She can do anything.

He chose her.

It takes her some time to realize: It’s not every thought that Nancy overhears—just the ones about her.

_Crazy. Creepy. Disturbed. What’s she doing here? What is she wearing? Crazy. Crazy. Witch. Witch. Witch._

_Bitch._

The party’s a fun place. Parties are fun, right?

Chris—that creep, that diseased piece of scum, that lying fucking rapist piece of shit—is thinking of Sarah. Of course he is. She helped cast the spell that made sure he would be.

She catches the edges of his thoughts though. _What’s she doing here? Is she here with Sarah? Why does Sarah have to hang out with this bitch? Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah…_

When she glamours herself to look like Sarah, all his thoughts are about her. It doesn’t matter that the name is wrong. They’re hers. The lust, the obsession, the love. They’re hers.

Then Sarah interrupts, all righteous.

Trying to protect Chris.

Who attacked her.

From Nancy. Who is trying to help her.

To avenge them.

To protect her (self).

Trying to teach Chris a lesson. That’s why she’s here. To teach Chris a lesson. Chris, who is mouthing apologies that she can’t hear over his mind screaming _Crazy bitch!_

He’s no loss to anyone. Not to the legions of women he would have screwed and screwed over in the future. Not to Nancy with his poisonous sweet words and his laughing scorn and his outraged fear ringing in her ears. Not to Sarah.

Sarah, whose mind is full of fear, whose mind is shouting _Leave me alone, go away, disappear, your fault, your fault…crazy…_ at Nancy even as she scuttles through the hallways of school like a little cockroach.

Sarah, who Nancy was only trying to help, whose mind is chanting _I bind you, Nancy._

**_I bind you, Nancy_ ** _._

Nancy won’t be bound. She can’t be. She invoked the Spirit, she has power beyond Sarah’s pathetic little imagination. No one can bind her.

He chose her.

Most of the time people’s minds are quiet. Blank. Empty. Like they’re not even real except when they see her. Rochelle and Bonnie aren’t that different. Little dolls with heads full of air whose minds turn loud and sharp with fear and betrayal when she tells them about Sarah’s little binding spell.

As they should. They took Sarah in, taught her to find her power, showed her there was so much more to the world. Tried to protect her from Chris. Avenged her. Destroyed him the way he deserved to be destroyed, the lying, cheating, fucking whore of a whiny little boy.

And then Sarah attacked Nancy for it.

Bonnie and Rochelle understood when Nancy explained what they needed to do next. That Sarah needed to be taught a lesson herself. They couldn’t let her think she could use her power against them like that without consequence.

Bonnie and Rochelle’s minds echoed together, like speakers on opposite ends of the room pouring out the same line at slightly different frequencies.

_Am I next?_

Nancy’s not sure why she could hear that. It wasn’t about her at all.

**Career Path #3 Reiki Master**

**(16 years and 6 months old)**

Sitting in front of the fireplace in Sarah’s room, surrounded by candles and incense, was not the first time Nancy had run her hands over Bonnie’s scars. The other girl hated letting anyone see her scars—hated any possibility of catching a glimpse of them herself—but they had done this before. Bonnie would hand Nancy a spell torn out of a book or a manual on Reiki healing or a hand-traced diagram and then would take her clothes off and turn around in a gesture of trust and vulnerability that Nancy wished she knew how to reciprocate.

Bonnie was always so full of hope when it came to magic. If they tried this spell. That prayer. If they manipulated the energy this way. If they found a fourth to complete their circle. She was sure it would work. Would fix her.

Nancy had to bite her lip sometimes to stop her from herself from pointing out how much Bonnie sounded like her own mother, dragging Bonnie from doctor’s appointment to plastic surgeon’s office and back. Bonnie was so tired, she knew, of the disappointment and the pain as they poked and prodded her while she slowly turned into a sullen, despondent lump of a girl. And then she turned around and dragged Nancy with her from spellbook to “ancient” scroll, practically vibrating with hope.

Bonnie is the one who told Nancy about Manon—about a power so much older than the worthless God that the nuns always bleated on about at school and church, who never helped anyone, never stopped anything, never fixed anything in their lives. Manon did—if you could catch his attention. Then He would take all of your problems, all of the terrible things about the world. And He would make them better.

Make it all. Better.

Nancy wanted to believe it. Believe in Him. Believe Bonnie—

Bonnie. Who every few months would hand Nancy a new book and then sit in front of her, her scars raw and ugly after all the treatments modern medicine could throw at her. Bonnie, her body and voice trembling as she begged magic to give her a new body. Begged Nancy to make her beautiful.

Sometimes, when Nancy concentrated, she could feel the energy under her hands as they hovered over Bonnie’s back. Could feel the wounds that twisted and burned across Bonnie’s skin.

Sometimes she thought it could be true. That if she could just figure out how to reach that energy, manipulate it, control it, then she could help Bonnie. She could take away Bonnie’s pain.

She could make it better.

Other times she thought that it wasn’t about the scars at all. The real problem was everyone else.

Her chest burned with pity at Bonnie’s desperation, at her mother’s pathetic gratitude when they came over to hang out with Bonnie, at Bonnie’s layers of shirts and sweaters and jackets and the way she sometimes left her hair unwashed and her makeup off as if she wanted to pretend that it was a choice she was making when the entitled bitches at school made fun of the way she looked.

Sometimes, Nancy felt a scream of rage building up in her instead, as she overheard the boys telling ‘horror’ stories about seeing Bonnie naked, as other girls whispered behind their hands, as teachers uncomfortably excused her from the locker room at gym class before she could even try to hand them her doctor’s note. As Bonnie pushed miracle cure after miracle cure into Nancy’s hands and then afterwards, her eyes full of disappointment, said that it was ok.

They just needed to find a fourth.

(Of course, Nancy wasn’t enough, couldn’t be enough, like it was her fault magic wasn’t real, couldn’t be real, how could life be like this if magic was real?)

Sitting in front of the fireplace in Sarah’s room, surrounded by candles and incense, it was the same as every other time Nancy had tried. Bonnie’s naked body and voice trembling, a desperate whispered chant, Nancy’s hands flowing through the air, feeling an energy she half-thought she was imagining. Sorrow and pity twisting through Nancy’s heart. Rage dancing under her skin.

It was different too. Rochelle wasn’t sitting in a corner, leafing through books they had taken from the shop or downstairs in the kitchen, trying to distract parents from coming up and interrupting with snacks or other transparent attempts to check on the three of them.

Rochelle was sitting on the bed with Sarah, weaving a vengeance spell into her hair. Because apparently it wasn’t enough that the teachers would ignore the constant bullying, they had to look away from outright shameless racism as well. Had to leave it to kids to protect themselves.

It did make a difference to have a fourth. Sarah made a difference—their spell and the energy under Nancy’s hands. It was different.

They could make it better. She could make it better, now. She had to. No one else would.

The rage surged through her veins like tides pulled by the moon.

No. One. Else. Ever. Did.

**Career Path #7 Witchy Small Business Owner**

**(15 years old)**

Rochelle has swim team, Bonnie has a continuous stream of doctor’s appointments, and Nancy needs a hobby for when they are busy that isn’t making out with Chris (who is still pretending not to know her in front of people).

Making people’s cigarettes, weed baggies and other contraband disappear right before the nuns start a “random” inspection isn’t exactly a hobby, but it does net her enough money from rich, entitled pricks that she can afford to indulge herself with some clothes that she’s not embarrassed to wear.

Plus, she’ll have plenty of blackmail material when those entitled pricks become rich, entitled politicians someday. It’s the best kind of magic trick—make something disappear in front of someone and they’ll totally miss your other hand sneaking into their wallet. Or something like that, anyway.

She wonders sometimes if public school could really be worse than being a Catholic school charity case.

Then she pictured a classroom full of wastes of space like Ray, who her mother was dating, and God, no. At least the wastes of space at her school bothered to wash themselves occasionally.

Plus, kids at her school were the worst with money—they went on about saving and prudence all the fucking time but thought that a $300 pair of sneakers was completely normal and that an occasional $50 tossed at Nancy to make sure that the nuns didn’t find porn stuffed in their lockers was worth it. Public school students probably read porn in class and cursed their teachers out for trying to confiscate it.

Or something. Anyways.

Nancy kept careful track of her business at school. She didn’t work on credit—given an emergency situation like an actual surprise inspection (rare, since the school secretary owed Nancy several favors), students had a week to pay up. Otherwise their contraband would show up in their locker or desk or car at exactly the wrong time.

She kept track of what she spent too.

She did lift the occasional piece of jewelry or item of clothing, but it was risky. Make up was easier. Magic shit was the easiest of all. The lady at the magic store rarely did anything besides raise an eyebrow and murmur about getting back what you put into the world or some other bullshit. Sometimes she ghosted behind Nancy like a creep and cleared her throat when Nancy picked up something a little more expensive than usual, and she never failed to snap the curtain closed when Nancy tried to lift it for a peek at the back room. But she never called the cops or chased Nancy out of her store or made her pay for shit. Beyond the general payment of tolerating the owner’s air of superiority and random bitchy comments that would be called snide if Nancy was the one saying them.

Nancy taught Bonnie and Rochelle how to shoplift at the magic shop.

They had a pretty steady supply of what they needed for rituals. Bonnie’s mom supplied snacks regularly and Rochelle ponied up for most other forms of entertainment. Sometimes she’d pay for movie tickets for all three of them and then they’d stay in the theater all day, sneaking from showing to showing.

So most of Nancy’s money from school went towards her wardrobe. She refused to be pitied for being poor or humored for being a sycophantic little shit like the other couple of charity cases at their school. Maintaining a certain standard of style—even if it was a weird as fuck style compared to everyone else—did half the job and the right fucking attitude did the rest of it.

Nancy wasn’t popular. She didn’t have friends other than Rochelle and Bonnie and she wasn’t exactly surprised that Chris kept it quiet that they were going out. But she wasn’t bullied like Rochelle and Bonnie were sometimes and she wasn’t pushed around like the other charity cases. People left her alone or they paid for her services.

Until Chris dropped his bomb in her fucking life and walked away without a scratch on him. Nancy spent 3 months listening to bitches whispering about STDs like she was the fucking diseased one. And her source of cash rapidly dried up.

The teachers did shit all, as usual.

**Career Path #9 Veterinarian or Animal Rescue**

**(7, 11, 14 and 16 years old)**

When Nancy was seven, she had a pet rat for about a week. Which is exactly the length of time that she was able to keep her mom from finding out that she had a pet rat.

“It’s fucking diseased, Nancy! Jesus!”

“No he’s not, Mom! I promise. He’s really clean and sweet and—”

“Get rid of it right now before I call an exterminator. A fucking rat. Really, Nancy?”

The next day, Nancy gave Spot back to the boy who had traded him to her for ten comic books and her lunchbox. He didn’t give her comic books back but she was able to grab her lunch box and hide it in the teacher’s lounge until the end of school.

Stealing Spot back was trickier, but she hadn’t spent a week training him to follow a trail of sunflower seeds through a maze of old clothes and books for nothing. She left him in a cardboard box on the third grade teacher’s desk with a note.

“Plɘaz tak carɘ of Spot. Hɘ is a good rat.”

When Nancy was eleven, she punched Rochelle’s brother when he introduced her to his pet corn snake. It was a quick punch to the shoulder as she told him that he should get the poor thing a better home. “Corn snakes like to climb, asshole. Give him something to do.”

When he threw a live mouse in the tank to show off feeding the snake, she waited until everything was completely closed and secure before kneeing him in the balls. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Rochelle’s mom gave Nancy the side-eye for a while after that, but her dad laughed and patted her on the back. And then he listened while she explained that it wasn’t just that the fucking mouse was probably terrified and in pain but that a live and struggling mouse could badly injure the snake as well.

The next time Nancy went to Rochelle’s, she checked. They had a store of frozen mice in a special little freezer. She liked Rochelle’s dad.

When Nancy was fourteen, she rescued a tarantula that Roger put inside some kid’s desk as a “prank.” So funny. Right. She thought about dropping it on Roger’s fucking head in the middle of class—see how he liked it—but she wasn’t about to do that to the spider. Even if it survived his freak-out, the trauma couldn’t be good for it.

“It’s like you’re Cat Woman, but only for really creepy animals,” Rochelle told her as Nancy emptied out a large pencil box and carefully placed the spider inside it. She slipped it into her backpack with plans to drop it off at her favorite pet store—they had a strict policy against selling animals to rich pricks if they couldn’t recite from memory at least ten basic care and feeding facts.

When Nancy was sixteen, she knelt on a beach petting the rough skin of a dying shark. She could feel the power rushing through her and she looked across the beach, at the long row of dead and dying animals, and she knew that it was a gift from Manon.

She laughed, delighted. He chose her.

**Career Path #4 Farming and Gardening**

**(17-21 years old)**

Digging her hands into wet soil, feeling the soft grainy dirt cling to her skin. The scent of water and green things. The warmth of sunlight. The cold shock of fresh air in the spring and the welcoming chill of wind in the autumn. Wood and metal and living things leaving their marks on her fingers and palms, against her lips and inside her nose, her heart, her mind.

They try and make you have hobbies in crazy jail. Not at first—not when she’s strapped down because she won’t stop screaming and scratching. Biting, if they get close enough.

But later. When she’s “earned some trust,” like a four-year-old allowed to help with chores that an older child would realize their parents are making up because it’s not like a four-year-old can do anything actually useful.

Then, they try and make her take up a hobby. (Magic, she is told very firmly, does not count. Apparently it’s not healthy for her to “keep pretending.”)

She can name at least three uses for every herb or flower in her little garden. None of them include any form of cooking or home décor.

**Career Path #8 Witchy Author**

**(21 years old)**

Writing is another hobby they encouraged in the hospital, but Nancy didn’t really get into it until after she left. All she was really interested in writing was elaborate revenge fantasies, which her doctors were never happy with.

When she gets out, finally, she stays with her mother. Where else is there for her to go?

It’s an unfamiliar apartment—not as fancy as the one they moved into after Ray died, but not in the rundown part of town that Nancy grew up in either. She can’t stand it.

She spends as much time out of the apartment as she can bear, considering that crowds make her itch and want to scream. Parks, libraries, movie theaters. Places people won’t try and talk to her, look at her. Think about her.

She watches the first Harry Potter movie on accident. She was there for Spy Game—because Brad Pitt, duh—and after the movie was over, she slipped into the next theater with a show starting.

On her way home, she picked up all four books from the library.

Elaborate revenge fantasies were much more appreciated by internet fandom than they were by the hospital doctors.

Nancy’s Hermione went way farther than punching Malfoy and reviewers cheered her. Ginny helped Hermione tag team Viktor Krum’s complete humiliation at the Yule Ball—Nancy had a theory as to why a famous athlete who was technically an adult would ask a nerdy and plain-looking 15-year-old girl to a dance. She didn’t like her theory much. A lot of readers seemed to enjoy it though—the revenge part, at least.

A year later, she threw the fifth book across the room three different times before finishing it.

She’d been an angry, angsty teen. She didn’t need the reminders.

It hadn’t worked out any better for her.

**Career Path #6 Acupuncturist and Herbalist**

**(23 years old)**

It wasn’t like it was easy to get a job with no high school diploma, no work experience, and no references except a couple of psych workers. And if the weak-ass resume managed to sneak through to an interview, someone would always ask “So, there’s some gaps in your resume. Where have you been since school?”

If she tried to work fast food, she’d probably kill someone. Which might land her an all expenses paid trip back to crazy-jail…if she was lucky.

A full year later, Nancy still isn’t sure how she ended up on the other side of the country from where she started, working as a retail assistant in a botanical shop on a tiny island off fucking Massachusetts. She is grudgingly willing to admit she owes Gillian Owens a debt.

The shop is…nice. Mostly they sell hippy hipster shit but Nancy’s hair and skin really do look and feel better than they have in years.

Some of the locals get freaked out by the way Nancy dresses or outraged by the way she talks, but Gillian will snark at them or her nieces will stare them into submission until they go away. Nancy doesn’t have to do anything.

The kids and the shop belong to Gillian’s sister. Nancy had a couple of bad moments the first couple of months up there—the sister reminded Nancy of Sarah sometimes. Like when she’d chastise Gillian for scaring off a rude customer or the way her spoon would stir her tea by itself.

Gillian was the one who hauled Nancy up from LA and talked her sister into giving Nancy a job. Carla, the other shop assistant, was the one who lent her a room for the first six months and helped her find a tiny, barely affordable house for herself.

But it was Sally, uptight and bossy Sally, who introduced Nancy to the Aunts. Sally was the one who brought Nancy over for a “work dinner” and told the Aunts “Here, someone new for you. Maybe if you focus on teaching her, it will keep you busy enough to stay out of my love life.” (Mostly, Nancy learned a few weeks later, Sally was hoping to distract them from a couple of key arguments in regard to her upcoming wedding.)

Nancy can’t really say which Owens woman was the one to bring magic back to her. Gillian, who picked her up in LA and brought her home? The Aunts, who took her to coven meetings and showed her what a community of magic-users supporting each other could look like? Little Kylie and Antonia, who reminded her that magic was wondrous and exciting? Sally, who taught her how to run a business and let her into her family and trusted her to make soaps and candles and herbal remedies that actually worked?

So Nancy can’t say for sure who it was that gave her her magic back, that helped her rediscover the feeling of flying, that taught her what it really, really means to know that the world gives you back what you put it into it. But it was definitely an Owens woman. An Owens witch.

**Career Path #5 Midwifes and Holistic Nurses**

**(27 years old)**

It’s been more than ten years since she’s seen Rochelle when Nancy walks into her newly local (newly re-local?) community center and sees her again. Or at least, a picture of her, on the wall above two diplomas and a nursing license.

She’s a wellness coach, apparently. She teaches several different classes in the center’s pool and gives talks on the toxic effects of stress

Nancy is there to give a talk on the toxic effects of chemical dyes and cheap shampoo. She should really add some space to talk about how to mitigate the effects of chlorine too—she’d forgotten this about LA. Actual sandy beaches with completely reasonable temperatures at their fingertips (instead of the icy, rocky death that was the North Atlantic—she’d really never adjusted to East Coast weather) and they still spent all their time in chemical soup.

She tries not to glance back at Rochelle’s picture—tries to not to scan the center, watching for a familiar face. She wonders what Rochelle’s first thought will be when—if—she sees Nancy. Wonders if she’ll even recognize her. Wonders if she’d want to.

(In spite of it all, Bonnie is the one she runs into first. It’s exactly as awkward as she’d worried, but doesn’t involve any of the screamed accusations, immediate violence, or terrifying fucking hallucinations that her nightmares had shown her).

Bonnie and Rochelle are still friends. Nancy was the only one they’d lost contact with. The one who had been lost. (Sarah had moved back to San Francisco that same year and no one had ever heard from her again, but she didn’t count. Sarah hadn’t gotten lost—she’d found herself).

They invite Nancy to lunch—it’s still fucking awkward. They had been friends for years, banded together against a terrible world, supported each other, learned and grew and discovered new things together. Invoked an ancient and unknowable power together, turning Nancy crazy and kind of evil and leading her to convince the other two to help trick and suicide-bait another girl while actually, possibly planning to really, truly murder her.

Awkward, right?

Nancy hadn’t been allowed visitors other than family in the hospital and her mother had barely spoken at all the few times she had shown up. She had no idea if Bonnie and Rochelle had even thought about trying to visit her. She certainly hadn’t tried to look them up when she came back the first time, avoiding her mother’s apartment by hanging out in the most anonymous public places she could think of.

It’s been more than ten years. They’ve all grown up, found jobs, made their own lives. Rochelle talks about her job at the center, Bonnie talks about her husband and daughter, Nancy talks about the East Coast and the things she’s missed about California.

It’s halfway through dessert before she mentions anything about the other parts of the East Coast—a full moon ceremony that the Aunts had hosted a few months ago. She’s not sure how they’ll take it—she can’t say what happened to them after it all went down, but none of what they tried had worked before Sarah had shown up and Nancy had certainly lost any abilities she’d gained after that final showdown.

They don’t say anything about it, as it turns out. Bonnie smiles shyly and fiddles with the crystal on the end of her necklace. Rochelle twists her fingers through her tight curls and asks if Nancy plans to become a member at the community center. They host all kinds of events.

By the end of lunch, Nancy thinks it might be possible for them to be friends again, some day, with a little work.

She’s looking forward to it.

**Career Path #1 Metaphysical Shop Owner**

**(An ever-changing present)**

Sometimes social outcast kids decide to embrace being called freaks or weirdos and show their bullies exactly how freaky they can get. The world is full of angry teenage girls wishing that just once they were the ones with the power. There are so, so many people of all ages who just want something to make it better.

For all of them, there exists a shop on the very edge of downtown—not the trendy side where the tourists flock thinking they’ll catch a glimpse of a movie star, and not the more prosaic side of downtown where you might actually run into someone famous. The other edge of downtown. The slightly seedy one where the police don’t bother running off homeless people for “loitering” (that is standing around, with or without intent, while visibly being someone that people in power don’t want to see).

The shop is always warm, with a diffuse and relaxing light. The shop tables are covered with smooth stones, colorful shells, and fragrant dried herbs separated into little wooden squares and meticulously organized into a completely obscure order. The shelves are crammed with herbal soaps and shampoos, teas and tisanes and lotions and boxes of incense. The blue incense will make a sleeper dream of flying—the shop does not offer refunds to people who wake up crying. There’s a corner in the back stuffed with books in a wide variety of languages—a couple of which are locked behind glass. Scattered throughout the shop are a series of differently sized origami, crochet and carved wooden snakes. And at least one live snake behind a wall of glass that visitors might not even realize is there.

No one has ever seen the owner making or moving any of the snakes, but they are different every time a person returns to the shop.

Nancy keeps a display of daggers—mostly ritual ones—directly behind the counter.

There is no five-finger-discount in Nancy’s store. When her friends mention it, she claims that she knows every bit of sleight of hand, distraction tactic, or other subterfuge that a thief might try from the other side and no one is good enough to beat her at her own game.

Rumor says that people have managed to sneak things out from her shop, but they’ve never, ever managed to keep any of it. It’s always shown up on her counter, sitting next to her cash register.

There is no five-finger-discount in Nancy’s shop. Customers who desperately want something they can’t afford are offered alternate ways to pay—chores that Nancy doesn’t feel like doing or goods in trade. Assholes end up paying twice sticker price as a Stupid Tax.

Bonnie sources most of the tea and drops off brownies and cookies from her bakery, to be sold individually wrapped. Rochelle exchanges recipes with Sally Owens and they have developed a new series of natural hair products for Black hair. Nancy sells out at least once a quarter.

Nancy looks the angry teenagers in the eyes and lets them know that she sees them. That they are welcome in her shop. That there’s a place where someone is willing to teach them, if they want to learn.

**Author's Note:**

> The list of careers in this fic came from https://otherworldlyoracle.com/professional-witch-career-paths-for-witches/. 
> 
> The Owens witches come from the movie Practical Magic, which is also a fun, slightly scary movie about women and witches. 
> 
> Vivien, thank you so much for your prompt! I really, really enjoyed writing this!


End file.
